Lessons: A Tryptych
by ProseEdda
Summary: Bruce learns a few things both before and after becoming Batman, some of them rather hair raising. Set in the movieverse. Light humor with some adult overtones.


**Lessons: A Triptych**

**1. **

His opponent, elegantly scarred, faces him across the killing floor. The broad, powerful body, wise in the ways of conflict, slowly assumes a pose of readiness. He feels his own body move into the same stance, the reptilian wariness at the back of his brain sending its ancient message of self-preservation. They are alone here, two shadows in the dark.

"You'll never win like that," says Ducard quietly. He is often quiet, unless he shouts to make a point. "I can see your eyes smoldering. Anger is a fuel, but never a motive."

"I'm not angry," he answers, and immediately doubts himself. Ducard's wisdom pierces his soul like a needle going through cloth so often that he unquestioningly believes what his teacher tells him.

"Yes, you are," replies Ducard. "So angry that you do not even know it, but I can see it plainly in your face. Can you not feel your own rage?"

His perception shifts inward. He has been taught to use his anger as a tool, and thought he was, but now he's not so sure. Is he angry? Perhaps he has slipped and unknowingly given in to it. Perhaps he has failed himself and his teacher in some as-yet-undiscovered way. Perhaps--

Ducard hits him like a freight train, tapping two energy points on his body almost casually, but he goes down, all the fight knocked out of him. His face pushed hard against the dirt, he feels Ducard's breath hot as a predator's in his ear, but the other man's words are calm, almost pleasant.

"Tonight's lesson," says his teacher, not relenting his grip, "is about distraction."

**2.**

The theater is dark enough to conceal him, and everyone's eyes are forward, anyway. He makes the mistake of looking at the screen once, and winces. The heaving gyrations are like a tribute to motion sickness, caught in lurid technicolor.

Lenny sits alone in the balcony, halfway down the middle row. He startles just before he's lifted by the shoulder and spun to face his inquisitor.

"You have the info?"

Lenny breathes heavily once or twice, righting himself, then nods. "Yeah. I got it."

Lenny is a stool pigeon, not to put too fine a point on it, though not a very connected one. Something's not right on the streets of Gotham beyond the usual random crimes, and Lenny, sniveling rat that he is, is the first link in a chain that may lead to the source. What Lenny hopes to get from this meeting is unclear, as he's not in any particular trouble and therefore needs no favors.

"So who am I looking for?"

"Guy's name is Tony. Don't know his last name. One of Falconi's old goons. He's trying to make a name for himself."

"How?" His fingers dig deeper into Lenny's shoulder.

Nostrils flaring in what looks like pain, Lenny answers, "Drugs, mostly. Regular kind, none of that crazy Scarecrow stuff. He's got a couple of street chemists running his lab. Don't know where."

"Anything else?" He clamps harder, so tight he can feel bone scraping bone. Lenny breathes raggedly, inhales with a moan.

"Protection racket," he gasps. "Mostly in Chinatown. Trying to start one. Not too lucky." He trembles.

This Tony must be an idiot, he thinks. Nobody with a brain tries to horn in on Chinatown. It's a little world of its own, with its own rules, its own players, its own crime bosses. Tony clearly isn't the source of unease he feels on the streets; and he's tempted to do nothing. The _tongs_ of Chinatown will do his work for him.

"You need anything else?" asks Lenny in a strained and--could it be?--hopeful voice.

No sense wasting a potential source. "I'll need you again. Keep your ears open," he answers with a final squeeze, and Lenny shudders violently. Pure relief washes over his face, followed by a beatific smile, when the iron grip is removed. Then he steps back quickly, zips himself up, and scurries away.

His interrogator recoils, stunned. Suddenly it's quite clear what Lenny's in it for. But how could anyone find what just happened…he specifically made himself into a fearsome, dark creature of the night, not a--a _fetish object_. He feels filthy and enraged, and has to leave, NOW.

His vehicle is a welcome refuge.

The sight of Lenny's blissful face plays out over and over in his mind. The closest he's ever seen to it is women discussing Batman at various charity functions. Their eyes go unfocused, they cross their legs unconsciously, they smile dreamily. It was a major boost to his ego until Alfred dryly pointed out that these women have the same reaction to a sample sale at Chanel.

Over the years, the people of Gotham will speculate endlessly why anyone would want to dress like a bat and fight crime. He will come to learn that there are many others with motives just as obscure who want far more sordid things than he does. Some people want those things from him. He'll have to teach himself not to let it distract him.

Alfred's waiting for him in the cave when he returns. "Profitable night, sir?"

"Slightly." He climbs out. "There's something going on, but all I got were false leads. At least I'm fairly sure they were false." He stretches briefly. "Could you ready a hot bath for me?"

"Indeed, sir," says his butler, and suddenly sharpens his gaze intently on his employer's boots and the hem of his cape. He looks down at them himself, sees what's stuck there, and turns bright crimson.

"Might I suggest, Master Bruce," says Alfred with stoic distaste, "You inquire of Mr. Fox how exactly one launders that outfit?"

**3.**

Jim Gordon's neighborhood is lower-middle-class verging on outright poor, but it's not a place you'd feel unsafe in. The people there work too hard and are too tough to let that happen. By night, he's barely been here. By day, he has the chauffeur drop him off a few blocks away from Gordon's address and walks, wearing one of his lesser suits. It still makes him stick out like a sore thumb.

Tonight's dinner, courtesy of Mrs. Gordon, is a direct result of a long conversation between himself and Jim at the annual Gotham City Police Fundraiser Ball, where they were snapped by a society page photographer ("If the 'Batman' can do his bit to keep the streets safe," said Mr. Bruce Wayne, "surely we can do the same. Although I think you'll agree," the dashing industrialist laughed, "I look much better in black!"). He was afraid that Gordon would meet him with either working-class contempt for the idle rich or the kind of undeserved deference those often appearing in the press tend to receive, but he found a quiet, dignified strength and earnestness that put them on equal footing immediately. Gordon has ideas, ideas that will actually help.

The entrance to the Gordons' home is behind the apartment building they live in--really a renovated tenement—and up a flight of stairs. There's a note taped to the door: "Mr. Wayne, Jim will be home from work in a little while. Ran to the store for a minute. Please let yourself in." He obliges and slips inside.

Immediately he's in the kitchen, which opens to a hallway. The first room on the right is accessible by a wide, doorless arch—a nice touch in a small place like this—and he calls, tentatively, "Hello? Anyone home?"

There's no answer and he almost sits at the table to wait when small noises issue from beyond the arch. His senses snap into focus and he stalks across the intervening space, all his training coming to the fore as he rounds the corner.

In the middle of a threadbare living room is a tall structure made of wooden blocks—chipped and multicolored and mismatched, but amazingly well-planned. Facing partially away is a very small girl, holding another block and frowning thoughtfully at the work in progress. Lost in her play, she must not have heard him.

He relaxes. She's the Gordons' daughter Barbara, he recognizes her from pictures proudly displayed in Jim's wallet. Her hair is even redder and curlier, and she's so adorable he finally gets what people make a fuss over children for.

"Hey, Barbara," he says brightly, and she startles, as one hand brushes the looming creation before her. It sways once, precariously, and then topples over. Blocks crash and spill everywhere. Her eyes widen and her mouth pops open, her shock almost vaudevillian.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he says after it's over. "Are you OK? Can I help you build it back?"

She spins around and fixes him with a look of pure ferocity. "That was _Wayne Tower_," she informs him coldly. "I made it by myself." Certainly without _his_ help, thank you very much. Her command of language affords no girlish lisping. She's a lot less cute now. She stands like a prizefighter about to round on an opponent. He almost takes a step back. Then he remembers how small she is, and she's adorable all over again.

"Was it?" he asks with a smile. "Why were you building Wayne Tower?"

She gapes at him in disbelief. Really, her manner suggests, first she has to see her hard work reduced to rubble and now she has to make small talk with the stupidest man in Gotham. "Because it's the _tallest_," she explains. Why would anybody bother with anything less?

Then her eyes narrow. "Who are you?" she asks. Unconsciously she crouches a little.

"I'm Bruce Wayne," he answers cheerfully. For God's sake, does this kid ever smile? "Your parents are having me over for dinner."

"Nobody told _me_ about it," she answers darkly. "You might just be saying you're a Mr. Wayne. You might be a stranger. Dad told me about strangers. He said not to let any in." She looks a little panicky on that last sentence; what if she was lax on the job?

"Well," he answers carefully, "My name really is Bruce Wayne, and I'm really here for dinner. I don't know why they didn't tell you, but I promise you it's really me." He drops to one knee and opens his arms with his most charming smile, the one that makes every female in his path giggle and melt. "How about you let me give you a big hug and then we'll fix Wayne Tower together?"

She eyes him and the space between them critically, as if measuring distance and wind velocity. Then she nods at him, while picking up another one of her blocks, this one a silver cylinder topped with a black dome. She runs to him, and just before being caught in the circle of his embrace, her arm comes up with the little building block grasped firmly in her hand. He has about half a second to register that the block in question has a nozzle on it before the pepper spray hits him full in the face.

Later he will be fine. Later, Jim will come home the same time his wife does—in about a minute, in fact—and haul him to his feet, drag him to the bathroom sink, and plunge his head under a stream of cold water, babbling apologies all the while. Later he will sit in the modest kitchen and eat excellent pot roast, which he will compliment profusely, while Barbara looks angrily at her plate (how could she know he was a nice man when nobody remembered to _tell her_ he was coming over? And anyway, he made her knock over an afternoon's worth of work) until he announces he has half a mind to hire her as Wayne Manor's security chief, at which she beams at him and suddenly decides he's OK, after all. Later he and Jim will sit at the cleared table and discuss plans for law enforcement that actively involve the citizens, ideas that seem both radical and practical, ideas that deepen the bond between them and make him realize Jim is going to be a friend, not just an acquaintance. Much later, tomorrow in fact, Barbara Gordon will receive a special delivery package from Gotham's finest toy store of three hundred handcrafted wooden blocks, with a note of apology.

But that comes after this moment, the moment in which he is learning one of the most important lessons of his life: never underestimate an opponent. And never discount anyone, anyone at all, as too small or too weak to be an opponent.


End file.
